


barking up the wrong tree

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: But Sherlock deserves it, Crack, John is a jerk, Johnlock - Freeform, Lestrade needs many drinks thanks to Sherlock's weird 'dog', M/M, Mentions of kinky leash/collar play, Silly, WereJohn, just for fun, kind of crack, various POV, were!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23973718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: When John finds himself stuck in his wolf form, Sherlock has to convince the Yarders that he is just a very big dog.Shenanigans ensue.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 39
Kudos: 188





	barking up the wrong tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InkAtHeart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkAtHeart/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Лаять не на то дерево](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24215956) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> InkatHeart managed to set this little brain worm in my ear, musing what would happen if John got stuck in his wolf form, and Sherlock had to pass him off as his 'dog.' 
> 
>   
> Unrelated to _lunar cycle._

Lestrade was not the first to notice the huge dog-like beast padding along at Sherlock’s side when the consulting detective descended upon the crime scene, but he _was_ the first to ask about it.

“Sherlock, did you get a dog?”

The sneer turned his way, accompanied by a cocked eyebrow, was only outdone by Sherlock’s icy tone, “No, Lestrade. I’m watching him for a friend.” 

Crossing his arms over his chest, Lestrade eyed the huge dog. “What breed is it?” 

“He, Lestrade. He’s a he.” Sherlock glanced at the animal at his side, the dog—though it looked closer to a wolf than any dog Lestrade had ever seen—looking up at him, tongue lolling out of open jaws. “I think he might be some kind of terrier?” 

Lestrade blinked, frowned, and snorted. “Sherlock—he’s _huge!_ Are you for real?”

The detective just shrugged. “I’m not an _expert_ , Gavin.” 

“It’s _Greg_.” 

Sherlock waved his hand, dismissive. “I’m here to solve your case, not socialize.” He caught Lestrade eyeing the dog again and sighed. “What?”

“Does he have a name?”

Sherlock looked at the dog, who tilted his head and looked back. The gesture was strangely human, and Lestrade frowned. Turning back to him, Sherlock flashed a sudden, shit-eating grin. “Hamish. His name is _Hamish.”_

The dog growled a low, rumbling sound. It made the hair rise on the back of Lestrade’s neck, and he shivered. “Isn’t that John’s middle name?” Frowning again, he searched the scene. “Where is John, anyway? Thought he’d be with you.” 

The detective and the dog shared another strange look. “No,” Sherlock said slowly. “John is, ah...deathly afraid of dogs!” The dog let out a yip, bumping Sherlock’s hip with his nose. Sherlock hissed in reply, swatting at the dog until it sat down with a hard thump, whuffing out a noise that sounded annoyed. 

“Is he?” Lestrade blinked. “He never said.”

“Oh, yes, absolutely terrified. Total phobia. Screams like a young girl anytime they come near—” the words cut off in a shout: the dog had bit Sherlock’s ankle, growling into the fabric of his trousers. Lestrade started forward in alarm, but Sherlock just shook his leg, shoving at the dog’s huge head. “Get _off!_ These were _expensive,_ Jo— _Hamish._ If you rip the fabric, you’re sleeping on the sofa tonight!” 

The sentence was odd, sticking with Lestrade long after the dog released Sherlock’s ankle and padded a few feet away with a grumble. Focusing back on the detective, Lestrade squinted at his leg. “Jesus, are you okay? He doesn’t seem very well trained.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock snapped. “He’s trained, but he’s a real arse. And he _ripped my trousers!_ You are _definitely_ sleeping on the sofa! _”_ The last was shouted toward the dog, who bristled and shot a teeth-bared glare over its shoulder at them. 

The scene was ridiculous. Lestrade could already feel the few remaining brown hairs on his head turning grey. To his alarm, Anderson chose that moment to involve himself.

“Oi!” his nasally, obnoxious voice rose over the sounds of the scene, “Why is there a _dog_ here?” Stalking over, he jabbed a finger toward the brooding animal. “Is this yours?” 

Sherlock fixed him with a hard stare. “What if it was?” 

Anderson’s face convulsed, lip curling back. “Get it out of here! We can’t have some mutt hanging around, contaminating the crime scene.” 

A growl reverberated from behind them, prompting Anderson to look over his shoulder at the dog, standing stiff-legged and upright. Sherlock smirked. 

“You should apologize.” His tone was smug, arms crossing casually over his chest. “I think you’ve offended him.” 

Anderson snorted. “ _Offended?_ How can a _dog_ be _offended?”_

“You called him a mutt.” 

“Well, it _is_ a mutt!” 

The growling deepened. Shooting Sherlock’s smug face an uncertain look, Lestrade squinted at the snarling animal. “Maybe just do it, Anderson.”

The expression on Anderson’s face was incredulous. “I’m not going to apologize to a _dog!”_

Sherlock shrugged. “Your choice, I suppose.” Looking at the dog, he added, “Try not to break the skin.” 

“What—” Anderson’s mouth clicked shut over the question as the dog dropped to a crouch, tail straight up, and surged forward. Letting out a scream—higher in pitch than Lestrade expected—Anderson turned and sprinted away. The dog followed on his heels, snapping and snarling until it had chased him halfway down the street. With a powerful leap, the dog’s huge front paws caught Anderson in the back, slamming him to the ground. He proceeded to sit on the fallen man, tail wagging in enthusiastic thumps against Anderson’s legs. 

“Jesus, Sherlock—call him off!” 

Rolling his eyes, letting out an annoyed sigh, Sherlock waved at the dog. “Come here!” Nothing. Perched on Anderson’s back, the dog’s tail stopped wagging. _“Come!”_ The ears went back, but the dog didn’t rise. Sherlock’s face darkened. “Get _over here,_ Hamish!” 

“You need to get him a leash and a collar, Sherlock.” Even from where he stood, Lestrade could hear the low growling and Anderson’s high-pitched whining. “You know it’s the law.” Sherlock waved an irritated hand, still gesturing at the dog. 

“Listen to me, you flea-ridden furball!” The words seemed to sink in. Slowly, the dog stepped off the man and padded over. Ears back, tail flicking in irritation, the dog smacked Sherlock in the knees with his hindquarters, forcing the detective to windmill his arms to stay upright. 

Watching, Lestrade let out a sigh, the sound nearly drowned out by Sherlock’s furious chant of, “Sofa! Sofa! Sofa!”

***

“Come now, John. Just the scarf. Please? It’ll be so dear!” 

Climbing the stairs to 221B, Sherlock walked into a strange standoff between John in his wolf form and Mrs. Hudson, who was clutching a red-and-white polka-dotted dog scarf in her hands. Sitting stiffly, front paws planted and ears plastered to his skull, John was having none of it. At Sherlock’s entrance, he whined at the detective, jerking his snout away from their landlady’s repeated attempts to slip the scarf on.

“Oh, come now, John.” Sherlock’s tone was amused, stepping past to drop onto the sofa. “Be a team player. Isn’t that what you’re always saying to me?”

John’s low whine shifted into a growl, jaws falling open, the noise rising into a savage, snarling bark. Mrs. Hudson smacked his snout with the flat of her hand, drawing a shocked yelp from him. Wounded, he shot her a look.

“None of that, mister! I know you’re a wolf, but you can still show proper manners!” 

John tilted his head, tip of his tail wagging in apology. The glare he cast Sherlock’s way was deadly, upper lip peeling back to show black gums and cruel teeth. Sherlock glared back, sticking out his tongue. John’s legs stiffened, hackles rising, only to fall at the hard stare Mrs. Hudson favoured him with. 

“Please, John? It would make for such a wonderful video on my TikTok account. Who knows how long you’ll be stuck in this form—might as well make the best of it! ” Mrs. Hudson tilted her head, pouting until John huffed, ducking his head and offering his furred neck. “Wonderful!” 

The put-upon expression on John’s face was enough to make Sherlock laugh, earning him another death glare, filled with a promise of revenge. 

***

Sherlock spat in the sink, rinsing toothpaste from his mouth. Using a towel to wipe his mouth, he passed through the door connecting the loo to the bedroom and froze at the sight of a huge wolf on the bed. John was curled into a neat coil of fur, legs folded beneath him, nose tucked under the tip of his large, bushy tail. Said tail began to wag slowly, hesitant, at the sight of Sherlock.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Sherlock bared his teeth, jabbing an accusatory finger at John. “I _told_ you, if you ripped my trousers you would be sleeping on the sofa! Get!” 

John let out a soft whine, tail flicking faster, ears tilting back slightly. Sherlock refused to be swayed.

“Nope! None of your pouting. I said it, and I meant it. Get off the bed!” The whine shifted into a growl, John’s ears going flat. Sherlock strode forward, pushing at the thick fur around John’s neck. “No! Get _up,_ John!” 

Unfolding his legs, John shifted onto his side, letting Sherlock shove him against the sheets until he rolled onto his back. Ignoring Sherlock’s protests, he wriggled against the pillows, shedding fur over the expensive thread count. His tongue lolled, front legs bent, paws kicking with obvious canine bliss.

Sherlock threw his arms into the air. “Fine! Fine, take the damn bed. Don’t think I won’t remember this next time you tell me I’ve been an arse!” Snatching up one of the pillows and the comforter, Sherlock stalked to the sitting room and threw the bedding onto the sofa. He dropped to the cushions with a huff, curling into a petulant ball, face toward the back of the couch. Jerking upward, face furious, he snapped, “You’re a bad dog!” 

A low whine answered from the direction of the bedroom and Sherlock flopped back onto his side with a snort. Knees hugged to his chest, he glowered at the back of the sofa in the dark until sleep found him.

When he woke in the morning with a warm, furred wolf lying half on top of him, Sherlock just sighed. John licking the side of his face with a long, wet tongue dashed any hopes for forgiveness from the detective, his angry shouts loud enough to wake Mrs. Hudson downstairs. 

***

Most of the time, living with a boyfriend-turned-wolf only required some minor readjustments to the daily routine. Other times, it involved John pouncing on Sherlock’s shoulders, ripping him from sleep with a heart attack in his chest and rage in his mouth. Had him launching upright just for John to haul ass out of the bedroom, nails skittering on the hardwood with Sherlock screaming bloody murder after his disappearing tail. 

Shopping was a nightmare. With John indisposed, the duty fell to Sherlock. The third time he returned with cream instead of milk and margarine instead of butter, John snapped at him until he agreed to bring him along. The no pets allowed sign on the front window had John pacing outside the double doors at Tesco, waiting for Sherlock to come out so he could plunge his snout into the bags, studying the results. Flashing teeth and a low growl sent the detective back for the forgotten eggs, bread, cheese, and tomatoes. 

“I hope you change back soon because I hate this.” Sherlock’s grumbles accompanied them back to the flat. John padded along at his side, tongue lolling, tail upright and flicking back and forth with languid pleasure. Glaring at him, Sherlock huffed, “At least _someone_ is enjoying themselves.” 

John’s answering bark was prompt and obviously amused. 

***

Leash training did not go well. Given John’s personality, it went about as expected. 

“I can’t believe you _bit_ me, you furry bastard!” Running his bleeding hand under cold water, Sherlock shouted across the kitchen at the wolf slinking around in the living room. John’s high-pitched, angry yips nearly drowned him out, broad sides banging against the furniture with his increasingly distraught pacing. The rising noise drew Mrs. Hudson upstairs, coming upon the calamity with fluttering hands and a pursed mouth. “Neighbours! Boys, the neighbours!” 

“Sod the neighbours!” Sherlock snarled. The curse was emphasized by John thumping down on his hind legs to lift his snout in a loud, drawn-out howl. “What are _you_ shouting about!” Sherlock shouted, “You’re not the one with a bloody hand!” 

The shouting and wild yipping resumed. Mrs. Hudson covered her ears with her hands, kicking at the pieces of nylon leash scattered about the flat. 

***

“Finally put that mutt on a leash? Good.” 

Sherlock’s mouth twisted at Anderson’s words. At his side, clipped to a long chain attached to a thick, nylon collar, the detective’s huge dog snarled, lips drawing back from his teeth. Drawn by the sound, Sally meandered over from manning the borders of the scene.

“What’s this, freak? Get lonely and decide to find yourself a friend who won’t run away? Haven’t seen John in a while, must have finally come to his senses and moved out.” Looking down at the dog, her lip curled in a sneer. “Need a leash just to keep a dog from running off on you. Figures.” 

Opening his mouth to retort, Sherlock was cut off by a flurry of furious barking. Planting his paws against the concrete, John yapped up at Sally, tail pointed straight out from his backend. When he finally quieted, Sally rolled her eyes.

“Of _course_ your dog is noisy, just like—”

John resumed his barking, drowning her out until she stopped talking. As soon as she opened her mouth again, the barking rose, a harsh, snarling rhythm of angry noise. Defeated, Sally snapped her mouth shut, shot a look at Sherlock that earned her a smirk, and stormed off with Anderson at her heels. Jaws parting, tongue lolling, John rubbed his head against Sherlock’s hip, panting happily when a long-fingered hand scratched behind his perked ears.

A sighing Lestrade side-eyed the detective, choosing to remain silent when the dog’s startlingly blue eyes darted his way in warning.

***

Take-two of leash training went as poorly as the first attempt. After fastening the chain to John’s collar, Sherlock attempted to take the wolf-version of his partner around Regent’s park for a controlled walk.

The first time John dragged him through grass, mud and a small pond, Sherlock accepted the apologetic ears and slow tail wag as sincere. By the third time, with John hauling him over a bench and ripping a large tear in his bespoke jacket, Sherlock was much less forgiving. 

When he caught the wolfish amusement on John’s face, he aimed a kick at John’s twitching rear end. The failed attack missed and resulted in John wrapping the heavy chain around Sherlock’s legs until he tipped over, receiving a faceful of dirt and sod. 

“You mutt! You bastard! You complete and utter _beast_ _!”_

Slipping his collar, John darted across the park. Sherlock followed, his shouts carrying over the grass and drawing far too much attention. John’s powerful legs ate up the distance, keeping him well out of reach. By the time Sherlock skidded to a halt, bending to toss a rock at the swaying tail and kicking paws, John was squirming in the damp grass on his back, tossing his head.

The rock thumped down beside his front legs, indented in the wet ground. John froze, head whipping around to glare at the detective. Picking up another rock, Sherlock looked up in time to catch a blur of fur and flashing teeth before he was face-first in the mud with John’s paws on his shoulders.

“You must _love_ the couch because that’s where you’re sleeping again!” Sputtering, the detective tried to shake the wolf off, but John’s weight pinned him in place. He reached for another rock, and John rose onto his hind legs, dropping back onto Sherlock’s shoulders to thump him against the ground again. He gave a few hearty bounces, grinding Sherlock’s face into the grass, and huffed a sound suspiciously close to a laugh.

Sherlock’s shout was loud enough to scare several birds from a nearby tree.

_“COUCH!”_

***

After two weeks, Sherlock’s new dog was beginning to wear on Lestrade’s last nerve. Banishing them both from crime scenes until Sherlock could learn to control the beast, he finally relented enough to agree to bring case files by the flat. As he climbed the stairs to 221B, loud, thundering noise rumbled from the landing. Legs slowing, Lestrade’s steps grew hesitant. 

The scene he walked into made him freeze. 

Sherlock was standing on the coffee table, holding his huge dog by the rough fur of its neck, the animal balanced on rear legs as it gripped the front of his suit jacket in its jaw. The dog was snarling, rumbling deep in its massive chest. But that was not the most shocking bit. 

The dog was wearing a red bandanna, a small cowboy hat, and a pair of dog-sized jeans with a hole in the back to accommodate the swinging tail. As Lestrade watched, a mug was sent to its doom by the tail, spilling tea and shards of crockery on the floor. 

“Um…” lost for words, Lestrade realized the landlady was standing just in the door, watching the encounter with an exasperated expression on her face. 

“Oh, Detective-Inspector, welcome.” She turned a warm smile on him, and he forced his eyes away from Sherlock, struggling with a dog dressed as a cowboy. 

“I...is Sherlock okay?”

Mrs. Hudson waved a hand. “They’re fine. Just a disagreement.”

Dazed, Lestrade blinked. “Sherlock has disagreements with his friend’s dog?” 

The look she gave him deepened his confusion. “His _friend’s_ dog? I don’t know about that, but arguments between those two are nothing new. In fact—”

“Shut _up,_ Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock’s harsh voice thundered her into silence. Jumping, Lestrade refocused in time to watch Sherlock step off from the coffee table, the dog thumping down to nose at the spilled tea. The look it favoured Sherlock with reminded Lestrade of John’s patented annoyance and he frowned, listening to Sherlock admonish, “Don’t look at me like that, _you’re_ the one who knocked it over!”

The dog yipped, snapping at Sherlock, subsiding when the detective scratched at his ears.

“I brought those case files you requested.” Holding them out, Lestrade glanced around the flat. “Is John still not back?”

The dog’s head lifted, ears perking up. Vibrant blue eyes settled on Lestrade, making the DI frown at the strange sense of familiarity in the gaze. 

Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, and, yes, definitely the dog, shared a look. Pasting one of his fake smiles on his face, the one that made Lestrade’s stomach curdle, Sherlock replied, “Yes, still away. That’s John, always going away. For, um. Doctor...conferences?” His eyes shifted to the dog at his side. The animal tilted its head, tail thumping against the floor in enthusiastic agreement. Sherlock’s grin widened. “Yes, that. John is at a conference. Yep. That.” 

“Right.” Lestrade squinted at them both before backing toward the door. “Sure. A conference.” Sherlock’s voice followed him to the stairs. 

“Everything all right, Grant?”

“Oh, yes, fine. And it’s Greg. Well, I’m off.” With that, Lestrade turned and all but ran down the stairs. Glancing up, he saw Sherlock peering after him over the railing, confusion on his angular face. 

Reaching the landing, pushing through the front door, Lestrade bolted to his car, digging for his mobile in the centre console. The selected number picked up on the first ring.

“Hello, Detective-Inspector. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?” 

“Bloody hell, Mycroft. What happened to John?”

***

Tapping the tip of his umbrella on the stairs as he climbed, Mycroft pushed through the door to 221B without announcing himself or knocking. Upon entering, he was struck by the sight of his brother on the floor, stretched out on his stomach. He was facing the television with his arms folded on the side of a sprawled wolf, head pillowed on bent forearms. 

At Mycroft’s entrance, the wolf kicked its paws, tail flicking up to catch Sherlock in the face. Eyes flying open, Sherlock focused on his brother with an irritated squint.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock sat up and crossed his legs beneath him, carding his fingers through thick fur when the wolf’s head landed in his lap. “What are you doing here?”

Eying the large wolf drooling happily against Sherlock’s knee, Mycroft moved to settle on the red chair across from Sherlock’s. The wolf’s ears flicked back and flattened, a low growl sounding deep in the animal’s chest. Voicing a sigh, Mycroft changed direction, dropping onto the couch instead. Sherlock looked smug. 

“You should know better than to sit in his chair when he’s like this.”

“Yes, yes., Mycroft sighed again. “My apologies, Doctor Watson.” John’s tail thumped against the floor. Tilting his head, Mycroft studied the beast resting on its side, head in Sherlock’s lap. “I presume you are stuck in this form?”

Another tail thump, followed by a soft whine as John dug his nose into the crease of Sherlock’s bent knee. 

Mycroft frowned. “How long has it been?” 

John whined again, nudging at Sherlock’s hand until it resumed stroking the fur between his ears. 

“Nearly two weeks.” The detective glanced down at the head in his lap, John blinking sleepy eyes while Sherlock scratched behind his ear. “It’s never been this long.” 

“Interesting.” Steepling his fingers beneath his chin, Mycroft looked over John’s wolf form. “I will have some of my staff conduct research, see if we can’t find a solution. In the meantime…” he turned his focus to Sherlock, “Lestrade called me in a small panic.” At Sherlock’s snort, he held up a warning hand. “He is suspicious of John’s ‘absence.’ Asked me if he had left you, or if you had finally murdered him for an experiment.” The look Sherlock and John exchanged was amused, John’s ears twitching to the side and back, once more drooling on Sherlock’s leg.

“I assume you think we should let him in on the secret?” Sherlock wiped the drool away with a grimace. “John, what do you think?” John let out a low ‘woof’ sound. Flipping onto his back, his legs stretched into the air before curling down toward his exposed stomach. Sherlock nodded and looked up to his brother. “Seems we are in agreement. We will explain the situation to Lestrade.”

Mycroft nodded. Rising to his feet, he braced his hands on the handle of the umbrella. “See that you do.” He tilted his head to Sherlock, then to the wolf squirming about on his legs. “Good day, brother. Doctor Watson.” 

Listening to him descend, Sherlock looked at the large head turning to tuck a wet nose against his stomach. “How should we do this?” 

John blinked, grinding his snout into Sherlock’s chest before he let out a soft bark. Sherlock sighed. 

“I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean.” 

***

Sitting in the cluttered kitchen of 221B, Lestrade frowned first at the man sitting across from him, then at the large dog pacing from the table to the living room and back. 

“Let me get this straight. You want me to believe that this dog— _wolf_ —is John?” 

Sherlock nodded, an encouraging grin on his face. “Yes! Yes, exactly.” 

Lestrade’s low snort wiped the grin away. “Seriously, Sherlock. When did you become such a bad liar?”

Brow furrowed, Sherlock looked insulted. “First of all, George, I am a _fantastic_ liar. Second, that _is_ John.” 

“That’s really not something to brag about, Sherlock.” 

The detective waved the scolding away. “Never mind that, I’m not lying now. Look at him! John, get in here.” 

The wolf padded back into the kitchen, stopping beside Sherlock’s chair. It was tall enough to see over the table with ease. Lestrade stared at it, and the beast’s tongue slipped out of its open mouth. “You renamed it John?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I didn’t rename him anything, that’s his name. You _know_ it’s his name.” The wolf yipped.

“This is mad,” Lestrade muttered. “You’ve gone mad.”

“I have not!” Sherlock rose to his feet, slapping his hands palm-down on the tabletop. “Mycroft said you were concerned and advised us to fill you in. So, here we are, filling you in. What you choose to believe is your own prerogative, I’ve done my bit.” 

Taken aback by the detective’s fierce words, Lestrade squinted at the wolf again. The beast pulled its tongue back into its mouth and stared back before trotting around the table toward him. The DI turned, frowning, to watch the wolf approach. “If this is a prank—”

Sherlock shook his head, hard enough that his curls moved. “It’s not. That’s John.”

Dropping onto its haunches, the wolf widened its eyes. Muzzle pointed at Lestrade, it lifted its head and nodded. Actually _nodded,_ huge head ducking and rising again. Lestrade stared. The blue eyes were vibrant and familiar. A strange sense of realization sank into his stomach. 

“But—how can you be a wolf? I think I would have noticed if my friend was a wolf.”

The wolf—John—made a grumbling, whining sound deep in his throat, paws digging at the floor. 

“Hey!” Sherlock snapped, “Watch the lino, or Mrs. Hudson will blame it on me again!”

The wolf huffed, rolling its eyes and shooting Sherlock a rude look. The actions were so like John’s usual reaction to Sherlock’s complaining that Lestrade frowned. 

“What the bloody hell.”

***

Now knowing the truth behind Sherlock’s ‘dog,’ Lestrade allowed them both back on crime scenes, as long as John was leashed and promised not to chase after Anderson. It was a close thing when the forensic expert swept upon them, spewing nasally complaints, but one snarling growl from John was enough to send him scurrying on his way. 

It was still hard to believe this massive, shaggy wolf was John Watson. Lestrade tried to keep an open mind, working not to believe himself stark-raving-mad every time the big animal did something that reminded him strongly of John the human. Like snapping at Sherlock when he said something decidedly sociopathic or brushed someone off with a rude word or gesture. 

What really made the truth sink in was an incident three days after the detective told Lestrade the truth. A complex case led to an underground black market for stolen medical equipment, and Sherlock, true to form, rushed into things with his usual pig-headed tenacity.

When he tore off ahead of Lestrade and his officers, disappearing around corners and into dark alleys, John bolted after him. 

The sound of gunshots set Lestrade’s heart thundering. The following sound of a wild, anguished howl felt like ice water in his veins. By the time they caught up, there were three bodies on the ground, skin marred by the mark of teeth. John was lying on his stomach beside an unconscious Sherlock. His long, powerful form was stretched out against the detective’s side, licking his slack face with flattened ears. At Lestrade’s approach, John looked up and let out a soft whine. 

When the ambulance arrived, John refused to be separated from Sherlock until Lestrade coaxed him back so the paramedics could get him onto the stretcher. The wolf paced after them, tail low and swinging, head ducked as he slunk over the concrete. When the medics refused to let him ride in the rig, Lestrade only managed to calm John by offering to drive him to the hospital in his police cruiser. 

It was a decision he almost regretted. Worked up and uneasy, John kept leaping from the front seat to the rear and back again, low, anxious whines grating on Lestrade’s frayed nerves as he navigated the London traffic.

“Pick a seat and stay there!” he finally barked, drawing a pitiful whimper from the agitated wolf. But John settled in the backseat, curling into a tight coil of fur and muscle, his whines constant and varying in pitch until they arrived at the hospital. 

***

Sherlock’s recovery was slow. As it turned out, all it took to finally make him rest was a bullet in the stomach. 

Once he was released, Lestrade was amused to find John was no less his strict doctor self, even stuck in wolf form. When the DI stopped by, he walked in to find John dragging Sherlock back to the bedroom. His teeth were locked in the expensive hem of a housecoat, Sherlock’s shouts half drowned out by John’s fierce snarls. 

John always won, dumping Sherlock back into bed under Lestrade’s amused observation. Between John and Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock managed to stay in bed long enough to heal, the happy recovery somewhat tempered by John’s continued existence in wolf form. 

Once Sherlock was back on his feet, John stuck close to his side at every crime scene, no matter how trivial. It became so commonplace that even Donovan and Anderson stopped making a fuss over the presence of the large ‘dog.’

On the day when Sherlock appeared at a grisly murder, human John trailing at his heels, Lestrade did a double-take. He had to rub his eyes to convince himself what he was seeing was real. When he blinked his eyes open, there was John, in all his two-legged glory. 

“You—you’re _human!”_

“Shh!” Sherlock hissed, shooting a glance at a couple of uniformed officers standing nearby. “Try not to announce John’s secret to the _entire_ force, would you, Gerald?”

“It’s Greg, Sherlock,” John corrected. There was a sharp grin on his face, and he nodded to Lestrade. “Yep, back to normal.” He frowned, “For now.” 

“But—how?” Lestrade rubbed a hand over his face. “I thought you were stuck.”

John shrugged. “I was. Then I woke up today and I wasn’t.” He flashed a grin at Sherlock, who turned a fierce red and cleared his throat. Wincing, Lestrade changed the topic, reluctant to be dragged into whatever _that_ look meant. 

“Shame, you bought all that dog stuff.” Thoughtful, he tapped a finger to his lip. “Suppose you could sell it.”

Sherlock, who was looking toward the crime scene, obviously distracted, said, “Oh, we still use the collar, sometimes.”

“Sherlock!” 

He glanced up at John’s reprimand and smirked. “Only in bed, though.” 

John’s grin turned absolutely predatory while Lestrade tried to look anywhere but at them. When John replied, he wished he was dead. 

“Except, _I’m_ not the one wearing it now.” 

Sherlock’s face went red once more, and Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh, god, I really didn’t want to know any of that.” Sherlock and John exchanged twin expressions of feigned innocence. Lestrade waved his hands at them in a shooing motion. “Go on, get, the both of you! You make me want to boil my eyes in acid.” They went, giggling in that inappropriate way they had. Watching them approach the crime scene, Lestrade made a mental note to get very, _very_ drunk later. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my 100th work on Ao3 😬


End file.
